Basic Combat Training

of my new home kept bouncing around in my head as I gazed at the dead, dry landscape surrounding the base. I failed to see anything that fit the name. I thought something like Fort Hot or Fort Dusty seemed more appropriate. Or maybe, Fort Bummer. Yeah, Ft. Bummer covered it pretty well. At least the free meals, free room and board, free clothing and cheap haircuts made our $65.00 per month pay a little easier to accept. And it was in cash and tax exempt!

After a restless few hours of sleep at the reception station we were rudely awakened to much screaming and then formed into a motley looking

formation in front of the building. Two drill sergeants were staring at us impatiently. We stood at attention, nervously waiting. Finally, it came; a verbal dressing-down like I've never heard before. In a very colorful language the drill sergeants proceeded to tell us what they thought of us. Words such as, "scum-bags" and "maggots," rolled off their tongues with amazing ease. And those were the more polite ones. Also, they noticed that a couple of recruits were carrying cameras, so they admonished us not to ever take a picture of a drill sergeant. If they suspected someone took a picture of them, the drill sergeant explained that they would open the camera and examine the film. If no drill sergeant pictures appeared, the camera would be closed and returned to the recruit (it seemed that some drill sergeants thought they were part-time comedians). Anyway, regardless of what the drill sergeants thought of us at the moment, the Army was about to begin an intensive 8 week training process that would transform us into real soldiers.

Next, it was off to get an Army regulation haircut followed by issuance of uniforms, boots and a few other odds and ends. I'll never forget the odd smell of all the new clothing. And, nearly everything was green. Well, actually the color was olive-drab; fatigues, hats, helmets, ruck-sacks, duffle-bags, etc. Even the interior walls of our barracks were an odd shade of green. I was beginning to develop a strong dislike for the color. Anyway, now that we sort of looked like soldiers, we were given a small advance on our pay and then marched to a small PX (Post Exchange) so we could buy the customary toilet articles. After that, it was time to head to the "hill" (Logan Heights) as it was called and begin our initial training. No matter what you wanted to call it; Boot Camp, Basic, BCT (Basic Combat Training), or just Boot, this was it. As it turned out, a few weren't going to make it.

It soon became apparent that barracks life does not lend itself to any

form of privacy. Every aspect is communal; showering, sleeping, relieving and whatever. The rigorous training regime certainly made it easy to sleep though, inspite of the sometimes noisy living quarters. Much of our training took place in the desert which was incredibly grueling in the

unmerciful summer heat. Since most of the rifle ranges and related training facilities were located miles (McGregor Range) from our company area, we were often transported in what we called "cattle cars." Basically, they resembled a semi-truck trailer, except the spartan interior was equipped with chromed-steel hand-holds that ran from floor to ceiling. There were no seats and very few windows. In fact, the "windows" were just small openings near the ceiling for ventilation. We were crammed into the cattle cars like sardines and inspite of the vents, it still got unbelievably hot inside. And since there were no real windows to look out of, the ride was often very nauseating.

It wasn't long before antics in the barracks began to surface. Anyone suspected of not pulling their weight, or who were just considered screwups received almost unmerciful harassment from fellow trainees. There was one hapless fellow in our barracks who was having a real difficult time negotiating some of the training apparatus successfully. One evening, a couple of trainees decided to fill his bed with shaving cream while he was taking a shower. He got a nasty surprise when he turned in. Close to tears, he went to supply and picked up clean bedding. After remaking his bed he returned to the shower to get cleaned up again. Sure enough, the two trainees filled his rack full of shaving cream a second time. This time, the poor fellow broke down into tears at the thought of having to go through the same process again. Like all of us, he was exhausted from the days training and badly needed rest. This fellow was eventually recycled (sent back to a newer training company) due to his slow physical development. I don't know if he ever graduated from basic training or not.

I don't think anyone escaped an up close and personal ass chewing by a drill sergeant. It was quite an experience when it happened. The drill sergeant would press the brim of his Yogi Bear hat right up against your forehead and start yelling. And you'd best not make eye contact with drill sergeant. The technique was to always stare straight ahead and look as if your eyes were focused on something a 1000 feet away. This was sometimes tricky to do while the drill sergeant's stinky hot breath overwhelmed your nostrils. It usually smelled like old coffee mixed with cigarette smoke.

There was one memorable time while we were learning how to bivouac in the field when a bunch of us thought it would be time-saving to shave the night before. It didn't work. Our drill sergeant noticed the very slight shadow on our faces the next morning and gave all of us still another royal ass chewing. Our punishment? All of us in our platoon had to dry-shave, all with same razor, while we were marching somewhere. As each trainee finished, he handed the razor to the guy behind him. That razor was pretty dull and nasty by the time it got to the rear. No one ever tried to shave the night before again.

The training and physical conditioning seemed almost endless. When we weren't running, crawling, jumping, climbing, pushing, shooting, punching, swinging, falling, wrestling or marching we were cleaning, polishing, buffing, dusting, scrubbing or organizing in preparation for the never-ending inspections. Well, we were allowed to eat now and then, if we were good. Oh yeah, there was one other thing; the people in command

never could make up their minds about the location of the white-washed rocks bordering the flag-pole and walkways. One day we would carry all of them down to the creek bed and the next day we would bring them back and line them up perfectly where they were the day before! This might've had something to do with training, but I vowed to never become a drill sergeant at this point.

None too soon the 8 week basic training ordeal was over. Right after graduation ceremonies we were given our training orders for AIT, or Advanced

Individual Training. This was the moment of truth for draftees as the Army now assigned their MOS (Military Occupational Specialty). For many (probably most), it was on to Advanced Infantry training. The remainder were shipped off to various other schools to become cooks, mechanics, clerks, field artillery gunners, engineers, armorers, medics and a multitude of other specialties that the Army needed. Generally, enlistees chose their desired MOS at the time of enlistment so there were few surprises at their AIT assignments. Still, there were many tears shed that day, particularly for those drawing Infantry MOS's. With the war in Vietnam building it almost guaranteed duty there. For me, it was off to Ft. Sill, Oklahoma for 10 weeks of field artillery radar training. I felt Vietnam wasn't in the cards for me. As it turned out, I could not have been more mistaken.

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